


the fire and the flood

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Turmoil, Id Fic, John Constantine Kissing Dudes, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, friends with benefits ~becoming more~, self sabotage, what are feelings? john just doesn't know, yes indeed it is time for another season of id fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: “John?” he says, mild — the calm before the storm — and John blinks.“Yeah?”“What are you still doing here?”“Wanted to make sure you were all right.”Chas snorts, and ducks his head. “Yeah, John,” he says, only a little sarcastic. “I’mall right.”
Relationships: Chas Chandler/John Constantine
Comments: 23
Kudos: 103





	the fire and the flood

A gunshot, from behind him — from behind where he’d been — and then the thud of impact, and a scream.

 _Got her_ , John thinks, exhausted, and then remembers: _Not enough._

A bullet, or buckshot, or whatever Chas’d used — it’s not _enough_ , Chas should know, _John_ did know, it’s why he came alone, Chas's just going to — 

“ _Stay_ down,” Chas snarls, and the cottage’s one lightbulb — ancient and flickering, buzzing like an angry hive — explodes into a sparkling waterfall of red-hot glass. 

*

Chas doesn’t snore. 

It’s one of his best qualities, frankly: looks all right, smells nice, keeps his hands to himself when asleep, doesn’t snore. Makes sleeping with him pleasant and uncomplicated — perhaps _too_ pleasant and uncomplicated, John thinks, waking up with an arm curled around Chas' stomach and his cheek pressed to Chas' shoulder.

He doesn’t remember how he got there, which isn’t unusual, but he’s almost fully clothed, which is. He’d gotten so far as to take his shoes and belt off, apparently, but the buttons of his shirt are pressing into his chest. 

Chas wouldn’t’ve let him fall asleep like that.

John opens his eyes, lifts his head, and has a look beneath the covers: Chas is mostly dressed too, but for bed, the white t-shirt and boxers he favors. Hardly the strangest sight John’s woken up to, which makes the cold, empty unease twisting in his gut particularly strange. He lets his head drop back onto Chas' chest, and tries to think. 

Night before was…Marietta. A bloody mess, more so than usual — John hates ghosts, hates being reminded that after a life of suffering on earth, a not insignificant number of unlucky sods get to spend an afterlife at it, still stuck on earth but without the fleeting, corporeal joys that come with a body, or even the change of scenery that heaven or hell or otherwise might provide.

And that’s just for the sad, confused buggers that don’t mean any real harm — those are simple enough to dispatch, and it’s easy enough to wring some sort of satisfaction from the idea of having helped them find peace or closure or some other sentimental nonsense. _Toward the light, then, there’s a lad,_ you could say, and sleep well that night, knowing you’d done a decent enough thing.

Last night…last night had not been like that. Last night had involved a great deal more howling, chain rattling, and furniture throwing than even John, who considers himself an adventurous sort, would’ve preferred. Also abrupt, cataclysmic changes in air pressure and temperature. A more thoughtful person might wonder if the spirit in question had frozen to death and was just reliving the event, in an accidentally expansive way. John’s less sympathetic than that; in his opinion what it comes down to is, ghosts are stupid, vindictive bastards. 

He and Zed and Chas had survived — more or less — but John’d been chilled to the bone, teeth chattering till he’d wrenched his mouth shut. Had to keep it that way, the entire ride home, which led to both Zed and Chas giving him strange looks, as if they’d never seen him be quiet before. 

The supernatural cold and pall of death had not lifted once they’d arrived at the mill house. It’d coiled around John and settled in, in ways that the burn of whisky down his throat and the curl of cigarette smoke in his lungs couldn’t quite drown out. 

Another thing about Chas — another of his best qualities — is that in addition to being solid, patient, and mostly willing to put up with John, he’s also consistently, persistently, and almost inexplicably _warm_. 

And so he remains: his soft heat radiating into John’s body, having long-since thawed the ice from his veins. Chas’ chest rises and falls with soft but steady breaths. John presses his cheek against Chas' sternum, and listens to the rumble of his heart. It fills John with a strange sort of calm — he shuts his eyes again, and inhales: Chas smells wonderful, like the soft drowsy mornings they’ll occasionally manage. John relaxes, soothed by the memory, and yawns. Has almost let himself be lulled to sleep again, before he realizes what he's done.

 _Christ_ , John thinks, feeling the pull of instinct and impulse, drawing him away from Chas and out of his bed, and not just in the literal, immediate sense: it’s one thing to fuck a friend, to find some sort of mutual satisfaction and quick comfort, when you both knew better than to get attached. But this is—this _feels_ —

Chas stirs beneath him; awakened, perhaps, by the sudden tension in John’s body, or more likely, because of John’s endless run of bad luck: the last thing he wants right now is to speak to him, and so of course the universe has seen fit to ensure that he will.

“Huh,” Chas says, like he’s surprised to see him. Strokes lightly at John’s back anyway, gentle and soothing. “Good morning?” he murmurs, vague and slightly confused; John’s not sure what part he’s uncertain about. In the end, it doesn’t matter: John doesn’t plan on answering.

He lifts his head instead, leans up, and kisses him square on the mouth. Chas lets out a huff of laughter but kisses back, slow but indulgent as always. Keeps up the steady stroking, warm broad hands running up and down John’s back. John crawls on top of him, rubs against him, and reaches up to run his fingers through Chas' hair. 

This is familiar — too familiar, probably — which means, at the very least, that it’s easy. That he doesn’t have to think about it, can shut his eyes, let the friction build between them, wait it out till Chas rolls him over and gives in to the urge to fuck him properly. 

Chas' erection is thick and hot, rutting impatiently against John’s. Having regained something of an upper hand, John sits up; Chas lets out a soft moan at the loss, and gazes up at John with tired eyes. 

“You’re still dressed,” Chas says, hands heavy around John’s waist. John leans back, grinning as he feels Chas' cock swell against his arse. 

“Got a better idea, have you?"

Chas snorts, pressing his thumbs into John’s hipbones. “I meant, did you sleep like that?"

John shrugs; obviously he did, and he’s not sure why Chas is asking. Chas huffs and shakes his head. His palms slide up John's hips, and he tries to unbutton John's shirt. John pushes his hands away: he's always found the gesture patronizing and too intimate by half, and this morning is no exception.

Chas gives him a strange, exasperated smile, like he's being unreasonably difficult but it's not worth picking the fight. Or no — it’s not that smile, it’s something else: fondness, like he finds John’s obstinance charming. That’s almost worse, but John can’t stop to address it right now, what with Chas' fingers making quick work of his trousers, unzipping and unbuttoning and reaching in, stroking at John’s cock.

It’s a couple of quick, loose pulls; not quite what John needs. He sways into Chas' grip, making sure to rub against Chas' erection as he does. Chas seems to appreciate it, reaching up with his other hand to tangle his fingers in John’s shirt, dragging him back down. 

They kiss again; Chas is more enthusiastic this time, all tongue and teeth and a hand around the back of John’s head, keeping him still as their lips move against each other, as he wanks John off with tighter, quicker strokes.

John hears himself let out a low, breathless whine; Chas seems to take this as a signal, and rolls them. Pins John down against the mattress, the full solid weight of him pressed to John’s body. John’s heart hammers against his ribs and his breath catches and his skin itches with desires he can’t categorize or control. He pulls at Chas' shirt, thrusts up into his grip; Chas drops his head to the side of John’s neck, kissing him there, sucking lightly at the skin. Chas is strangely reluctant to leave marks but can, on occasion, be persuaded — it’s not a battle John’s particularly interested in fighting today, but he tips his head back all the same: eager for attention, pressing his throat against Chas' teeth. Chas chuckles into his skin and drops a kiss right below John’s ear, then another, starting a soft, warm trail of contact down along John’s neck, one made more arousing than it should be by the friction from Chas' beard.

John threads his fingers through Chas’ dark, silky hair as Chas’ mouth continues its trip down John’s chest. John can barely feel the warmth of Chas’ lips through his shirt, and regrets not having let Chas take it off him. His fingers slip from their fond, familiar exploration of Chas' increasingly tousled hair and Chas' broad shoulders to his own buttons, fumbling with the shirt and wrestling it off with significantly less finesse than he’d’ve preferred. 

Not that Chas notices: he’s tugging at John’s trousers and pants, pulling them down past his knees and ankles with the kind of thoughtless efficiency that is so typically, infuriatingly Chas. 

John misses the weight of him, the feeling of being pressed down and held still by his body, but he also knows what’s — _hah_ — coming, long before Chas' mouth arrives at its final destination.

John's regularly surprised by the fact that Chas — good old Chas, who'd never so much as thought of another man's cock before John'd gotten his hooks in — is so bloody good at this. But he is, patient and methodical and always eager, with a mouth on him like a fucking hoover. 

John shuts his eyes and buries one hand in Chas' hair, lets the other twist in the sheets. He could come like this, he thinks; might as well, really. Lets his head fall back, shuts his eyes, drowns in the feeling of Chas' warm, wet mouth and coarse but gentle hands running up and down along John’s bare thighs. 

Chas sets a rhythm: steady but slow enough that John desperately wants to thrust up into his mouth, wants to grab the back of his head and force him down. 

Threads his fingers through Chas' hair instead, almost fitfully. Chas takes him in deeper, impressively far, a low encouraging hum vibrating around John’s cock. John squirms, shoulder blades pressing into the mattress behind him as he arches off the bed, hips straining against Chas' steady grip. 

He comes, and Chas swallows.

Always does. Always has. Will stay there, sucking at John’s softening cock, usually until John pushes his head away, out of impatience or an overflow of sensation or both. Sometimes John doesn’t. Lies back instead, panting, as Chas sucks him dry, bearded cheeks brushing against the inside of John’s thighs. Chas’ll pull off, rest his forehead on John’s hip for a bit, and then usually leave him be. 

John’s not about to let him, this time. Grabs at the collar of Chas' shirt, and pulls him back up.

Can taste himself in Chas' mouth — filthy and delighted, he rubs up against Chas, even though he’s still spent, even though it’s painful. “Want you,” he murmurs, and it’s true. 

“I’m here,” murmurs Chas, panting against John’s mouth. It’s a ridiculous thing to say — _obviously_ , John almost smirks, _didn’t think otherwise,_ _hard to miss you, after all_ — but then Chas sees fit to add, “You’ve got me,” soft but heated, meaning it, and kisses him. John finds himself unable to say very much at all, after that. 

*

“She thought she was saving 'em,” he says, around an unlit cigarette. The lighter shakes in his hand until Zed sighs, taking pity on him. Relieves him of it, and frowns as he leans over. Her only slightly steadier fingers light the cigarette for him, and John pulls back, inhaling as deeply as he can. 

The split in his lip aches. He wishes Zed hadn’t dragged him quite so far away from the cottage as it began to collapse. 

“The girls,” he clarifies. “She needed the lives an’ all that, but — she thought she was savin’ them.”

“From what?” Zed says, horrified but — John is darkly amused to find — slightly curious. She’s been with him too long, if she’s started to care about the _why'_ s and not just the _what'_ s and the _how do we stop it'_ s. John himself has come back around to _heard it before, love, let's move this along._

“Cruelties of the world, comin’ fall of civilization. Global warmin’. Brexit. That sort of thing.” John leans back against the side of the pickup. “Hard to say for sure she was wrong, eh?” he adds, glancing over at Zed to gauge her reaction.

Zed joins him against the side of the pickup and shakes her head. “It’s not,” she says, flat. “She was wrong. It’s always easier to give up than it is to fight.”

“Given up a lot, have you?”

“What?”

John shrugs. “Just wonderin’. How you know it's easier, I mean.”

Zed frowns at him but doesn’t answer, and he sighs. Takes another drag from his cigarette, and then exhales.

“He very angry with me?"

Zed gives him a long look. “What do you think?"

“Think I could do without the bloody riddles right now, actually."

“Yes, John,” she says, slow and pettily deliberate. “He's very angry with you."

John winces as what’s left the cottage collapses once and for all, sending up a plume of mud-brown dust. Won’t be long now, he figures.

“How much’s very?"

"You’re supposed to ride home with me,” she says, nodding at the truck. 

“Well, I’m not doin’ that, love."

“ _Of_ course not,” she says, exasperated, as though it’s somehow her problem. 

He snorts. “Right. Well. Piss off, then."

“John—"

“Don’t wanna be here when the fireworks start, do you?"

*

“Hey,” Chas mumbles, reaching for John as he slips out of bed. John tries not to wince, and forces a smile before turning back around.

“Back to sleep, mate,” he says, soft as he can manage around the lump in his throat. “Get some rest.”

A pause, and then, soft and careful, Chas offers: “Get some with me,” and drowsily pats the bed next to him. 

John ducks his head, then leans over. Presses a quick, nervous kiss to Chas’ forehead — one of the few times he’ll be in range for it — and darts away. Feels Chas’ hand slide off his hip — letting him go, but leaving a pleasant trail of warmth across his skin. 

“Be back before you know it,” John lies, and flees.

*

“What are you still doing here?" says Chas, walking past John and not quite meeting his eyes. His hair’s covered in dust and his shirt — the one he’d been wearing the night before, dark blue and open at the collar — bears more than a dozen quarter-sized holes. John had seen them happen, had seen Chas skewered by the glowing shards of light the witch had burst into when Chas plunged the dagger into her chest. 

The rest of him seems — no worse for wear. 

John watches, leaning against the cab, as Chas slips out of the ruined shirt and into another — this one dark grey, and no less attractive on him — and pulls his green jacket on over that. Shuts the cab door, and walks back around. “John?” he says, mild — the calm before the storm — and John blinks.

“Yeah?”

“What are you still doing here?”

“Wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Chas snorts, and ducks his head. “Yeah, John,” he says, only a little sarcastic. “I’m _all right_.”

 _Good_ , John should say. _Glad to hear it._

Chas seems to be expecting him to, anyway. When John doesn’t speak again, he rolls his eyes. “Did you want something else?”

“Yeah,” John says, simple, careful. “You.” Lifts his head a little, stretching his neck. Shrugs. 

Chas sighs. “Don’t do that."

“Don’t do what?"

“You know I’m pissed at you."

“Believe it or not, mate, I’m tryin’ to make up for it."

Chas takes a step closer, putting him in range. “You could just apologize, you know?” 

“Ah, but what fun would that be?” John says, reaching out: he grabs at the ends of Chas' jacket, gives him a little tug. Chas sighs but takes another step, then crosses his arms over his chest preemptively.

“And everything in a relationship has to be fun, right?"

“Oooh, ’s a _relationship_ now, is it?” he says, without thinking — though truth be told, he’d probably have said it anyway. Chas frowns and tries to step away; John keeps his hold on Chas' jacket and pulls him back. “Mate—"

“I don’t want to do this right now."

“Can think of somethin’ better we could do, then."

Chas winces, oddly, and then shakes his head. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this."

“When aren’t I like this?"

“Maybe that’s my damn point,” Chas says.

“I’m doing my bloody best, here,” John snaps, and Chas sighs, again, like he doubts it. John doesn’t blame him; it’s not like he doesn’t have reason to. 

Chas shuts his eyes for a moment, and shakes his head. Opens his eyes. “Let’s go."

“Chas—"

Chas ignores him, heading toward the driver’s side, only looking up when he sees John going to the passenger’s.

Looks at him, sharp and pointed, and nods toward the backseat.

John winces; it’s been a while since he lost front seat privileges, not since they’d started screwing. But he’s not about to be left to find his own way home, so he does as he’s been not-quite told, and goes so far as to avoid slamming the door shut behind him. 

Chas takes no such precautions, clambering into the driver’s and shutting the door hard enough that the cab shakes. 

“Chas,” he tries again. “Chas, mate, I _am—_ ”

“Don’t,” Chas warns, jerking the steering wheel around and sending the cab surging back onto the road. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean. Not to me.” Glances back at John in the rearview; John presses his lips together, already feeling sick, and goes to light a cigarette. Chas chuckles to himself — resigned and darkly amused — and nods. “Yeah,” he says, under his breath. “That’s what I thought.”  
  


*

John doesn’t breath again till he’s in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. 

He’s pale beneath the ashy grey stubble on his cheeks, and his eyes are cold. Tired, sunken, haunted by shadows both literal and metaphorical.

 _Christ_ , is that what Chas sees when he looks at him? A walking corpse, a brittle, broken thing?

And then a thought — unbidden, unwanted — floats to the top of John’s swirling consciousness.

 _Is that what Chas_ **_wants_** _?_

Because Chas is the type to cling, to hold on to whatever he can get and just barely talk himself into enjoying. He must think he can make it _work_ between them, that everything he’s given up to be _with_ John can be justified, through affection and devotion and — if all else fails — sheer force of will. 

John’s been through that sort of thing before. The ex girlfriends, the odd boyfriend, all the rest...it always comes to a messy and unavoidable end, but the single common denominator is always John, who’s shite at relationships and always has been. The romantic illusion of what _could_ be always faded before the realization of what was — that John was cold and brittle, sharp in ways no amount of love could smooth. 

The sooner Chas realizes, the better off he’ll be, but...he thinks he’s doing John good. And he _cares_ about John, has done for ages, even before John had goaded him into whatever it is they have now. Not that it means much — Chas’ll care about anything that stands still long enough, that offers even the falsest promise of reciprocation.

He's got a big, soppy heart, has Chas. John had seen it once, watched it quiver with shock, unable to look away as Chas' body warred between death and life after taking a shotgun blast to the chest. Been tempted to wrap his hands around the pulpy mess — desperate to feel the magic weaving him back together again, hoping to understand what made him tick.

He thinks about it, sometimes: Chas’ blood on his hands. His name on Chas’ lips. The bile rising in the back of his throat.

He dreams about it, too.

*

He blinks awake.

It’s dark out — couple of hours have passed, then. The cab’s moving, he can tell that much: hears the hum of the engine, the strains of music from the radio. 

He leans up, reaches out. The seat’s too far back to manage it with any kind of grace, and he’s left with his arse half hanging off the seat. Hooking his arm over the partition allows for some stability, at least, and he’s confident enough to wink when Chas glances back at him in the rearview. 

“John…” says Chas, low and exasperated, though curious — always a little curious. John smiles and reaches over, running a hand through the thick, dark hair. 

“Yeah?” 

Chas sighs. “Sit back down."

John leans in closer, close enough that he can speak into Chas’ ear. “Know what I like about you, mate?"

“My simple and forgiving nature?” he mutters, almost to himself. John decides that’s best left alone, and presses a quick kiss to the side of Chas’ neck. 

“You always smell so bloody good,” he says, inhaling — partly for show and partly because it’s true: Chas always does, or at least, whenever John’s allowed to get this close he does. “And your hands…” those broad, strong hands of his, always so careful with him; even when it gets rough between them, it’s never careless. “Your neck…” he mouths at it, grins against the twitch of tendons and warm skin. “Your shoulders…” he rests his chin on the right one, as he keeps kissing Chas' neck. 

“John."

“Mm?"

“I’m _driving_."

“Oh, are you?” John says, all exaggerated shock; catches Chas' familiar eye roll in the mirror, and smirks. 

“ _John_ "

“Pull over."

Chas doesn’t — John never really expected him to — but there is a moment, where his gaze flickers back, where his hands flex against the steering wheel. His pulse jumps against John’s lips. “Sit down,” he says: low, simple, and intractable.

John does, flopping back against the seat. Meets Chas’ eyes: a soft, electric moment of contact, before Chas’ gaze flickers away, back to the road, and his ears flush red. John can’t help but smile.

*

“There you are,” says Chas, glancing up as John makes his way down the staircase. 

John bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chas hesitates, dropping his gaze to the array of newspapers and computer printouts spread across the table. “You were gone a while,” he says, carefully.

“And?” 

Chas glances up. “I’m not allowed to wonder where you are?”

“’s a free bloody country, mate, can wonder about whatever you like."

Chas waits for a moment, patient but expectant. John stares back at him, blankly — a vague, petty challenge — and Chas rolls his eyes. “Okay, well, where were you?”

“Out.”

“ _Really_ ?” he says, incredulous, and then shakes his head. “Fine. That’s — _fine_.”

“Oh, is it, then?” John smirks.

“What do you care?” Chas shoots back, and John — winces. 

“Chas,” he starts, softer than he’d like, but Chas just shakes his head and turns away. 

“I mean, I worry about _you_ because I give a shit, but you — clearly don’t give a shit about me, so why do _you_ care whether something is—“

“ _Chas—“_

“You — just left. I get up, and you’re just— _gone_ , and so’s the truck, which you can’t even drive—“

“I can drive the—“

He turns back around. “You can’t,” he Chas, flat and with the final, unshakeable conviction of the man who’d tried to teach John to drive in the first place. “And you weren’t answering your phone. I had no idea — _we,_ had no idea, where you were. You didn’t even have the basic _decency_ to tell me you were—”

“Need to know every bloody place I go, do you?"

“Of course not,“ Chas sighs. “But—“ 

“‘Cause I’ll note, mate, that that’s not a bit of _basic_ fucking _decency_ you afforded your—“

“ _Don’t_ —"

“—wife, when you were off— “

“Taking care of _you_ ,” Chas snaps, jabbing his finger at John. “Being there, _for you_. I’m here, in the middle of _no_ where, _divorced,_ for —"

“Oh, _that’s_ on me, is it? Fact that you couldn’t keep your mess of a marriage together, that’s _my_ fault, now? Wasn’t the one running off every bloody chance he got, gettin’ himself into trouble ‘cause playing happy families got too _boring_ —"

“Go fuck yourself.”

“But you do it _so_ much better,” John sneers, knowing it’s cruel, knowing it’s a mistake, but too curious about what Chas’ll do to stop.

What Chas does is...sigh. Let out a quick, incredulous huff, shake his head, and drop his gaze. “Just keep trying, John,” he says, quiet and deceptively even.

"What?" John says, confused — the words themselves, the obvious exhaustion in Chas’ voice, make him falter.

“Keep trying to push me away,” he says, sharp but calm, as he gathers up the papers he’d been studying and shuffles them into a tidy pile. "Because one of these days?” he glances back at John, and then shrugs. “I just might let you."

*

He wakes up again.

“Where are we?” he says, blinking — the rain’s coming down too hard to read the sign. 

Chas meets his eye in the mirror, and then glances down. “New Castle,” he says, quickly, like he’s ripping off a bandage. “Delaware,” he clarifies, as if he thinks John’ll assume they somehow drove across the Atlantic in the past half hour John’s been asleep. “Rain’s not stopping. Figured we should — we need to stop for the night.”

They’ve turned off the highway and into the parking lot of a particularly grim motel, one with burnt out bulbs in both the _no_ and the _vacancy_. “Here?” John says, dubious.

“Why not?" 

John can’t help but needle him. “What about your miles?” 

Chas rolls his eyes. “What _about_ my miles,” he says, almost under his breath, and exits the cab. John stays where he is — hasn’t been told to move, and, more importantly, it’s pouring. Chas jogs toward the door, getting thoroughly soaked in the process.

John watches him go, watches him fade beyond a pair of glass doors and dimly lit reception area. Watches him return, jogging through the rain again, shirt clinging to his broad chest. 

“There’s only one room,” says Chas, with the unfocused stare of a man who’s afraid he’ll look like he’s lying if he doesn’t make eye contact.

“Right,” says John.

Chas’ hair drips into his eyes and he brushes it back, annoyed. John is struck by the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out, to take Chas’ face in his hands, to kiss him.

John drops his gaze and Chas pulls the cab out, parks it in the far corner of the long row of rooms. The trip from the cab to door is quick — John’s coat saves him from the worst of it, but Chas is already drenched, and shakes water from his hair again as he gets the door open and steps inside. John follows, wordless, and looks around: the room is fairly clean, for a seedy strip motel, and utterly forgettable. Bed neatly made up with crisp white sheets, faded green wallpaper, and only the vaguest scent of sweat and mold. 

John lets the door shut behind him. 

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Chas says; he’s still dripping, and must be freezing in the face of the aggressive air conditioning. John nods. Chas looks at him like he’s surprised John’s got nothing to add, then shakes his head. “Don’t smoke in here,” he says, as he heads toward the bathroom.

John hadn’t planned on it, but now….he takes off his coat and boots, and loosens his tie. Hears the water begin to run in the other room. Takes out his lighter and a pack, and walks over.

Opens the door, wincing at the blast of hot steam. Chas doesn’t notice, or perhaps he doesn’t care — John goes so far as to shut the door behind him and there’s still no indication either way. 

John bangs down the toilet lid. Chas jumps, nearly slips — reaches out to steady himself against the wall. John holds back a smirk.

“Need a hand in there?” 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Chas says, sputtering a little. 

“Close,” John says, lighting his cigarette. It takes some work — the paper seems resistant to the dampness of the bathroom. “But no cigar."

“I told you not to—"

"Yeah, yeah,” John says, and exhales.

“ _Yeah, yeah_ ,” Chas mocks, under his breath. “It’s the only hotel for miles. You wanna get us kicked out over that?"

“Could be all right. Sleep in the car. Have us a _cuddle_."

“Fuck you,” Chas says, not meaning it — John grins around his cigarette and leans back against the tank. 

He sits, watching the fuzzy outline of Chas’ body through the frosted glass doors, flooding his lungs with warm smoke. It’s a strange sort of peaceful — something as innocuous as that, as simple as sitting still and watching the vague outline of his best mate soap up and rinse off. 

The water stops. “Pass me a towel,” Chas says.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, mate," says John, reaching back to grab one anyway. 

Chas doesn’t respond, just reaches out, pulls the towel from his hand. Stays behind the translucent shower glass — John can’t see the details but he sees enough, the journey of the white towel over Chas’ body. He rubs it briskly over his hair, wraps it round his waist. 

Slides the glass back. Spots John, and rolls his eyes. _Did you want something_? Chas wants to say, or something like that, but knows better than to leave John with the opening. 

“Hello,” John says, opting to keep it simple.

Chas huffs. “Hi,” he says, grudging. “What are you doing in here?"

John shrugs. Takes another drag from his cigarette — slow inhale, long exhale — as Chas glares at him half-heartedly. He’s clearly too tired to spar or scold, and it’s wrong to take advantage, certainly, but it’s not like that’s ever stopped John before.

He smiles. “Come here, then,” he says, dropping the cigarette in the empty bin. 

“Why?” says Chas, wary — as if he’s not caught on, or is determined to make John ask. But he comes anyway, close enough that John can wrap his hands around Chas’ waist, right above where the towel sits on his hips.

Chas inhales — sharp, more surprised than annoyed, which is just as well — looks up at the ceiling, and says: “Oh."

“ _Oh_ ,” John agrees, and goes to untuck the towel. Even soft, Chas’ cock is impressive. John ducks his head, closes his eyes — runs his lips up along the shaft, not taking it into his mouth quite yet. Tracing the shape of it as it hardens. 

Pulls back, rests his forehead against Chas’ hip. 

“Do you like this?” he says, breathless — nuzzling against Chas’ stomach, breathing in his scent. Chas’ fingers run steadily through his hair. “When I—“ he drops his head, runs his lips along the shaft of his cock. “When I suck you off?"

Chas exhales, long and slow.

“I come, don’t I?"

“Because it’s me?” John says, and looks up. “Or because it’s…” 

Chas’ hands stroke up the back of John’s head. Gentle, careful. “Because it’s...what?"

John sighs. _Nothing_ , he wants to say. Well, no — what he wants to say is, _is this convenience?_ What he wants to know is, _are you just lonely?_ What he thinks is, _what does it matter? why do I care? when did I start?_

And most importantly: _How do I stop?_

He doesn’t say anything at all. Decides to put his mouth to better use and Chas, at least, seems to appreciate that. 

*

Chas has never asked for much — that’s always been the appeal of _Chas_ , frankly, that he’ll give and give and _give_ , that he’ll fuck John when he wants him to and feed John when he’s hungry and even when he isn’t, that he’ll ruin his entire bloody life for John with no real expectation beyond John’s amused tolerance. John’s never had to _try_ with Chas, has never thought to bother, and there he is anyway, letting John into his bed, kissing him like he means it, fucking him so hard that John shakes with it, revels in it, spends the next day lightheaded from it.

John’s never asked why. In his own vanity, his own hedonism, he's never so much as thought to question it — Chas owes him, or Chas needs him, or Chas loves him. It's all the same, to John, and always has been.

Chas’ loyalty is one thing: an ancient debt, long since repaid, more times over again than John cares to think about, if he’s being honest. 

But the rest of it — Chas’ affection for him, his willingness let John fuck around and run off and foul up what little trust and tenderness there is between them, and welcome him back anyway — is almost too absurd to contemplate. John’s a bastard and always has been, but even for him, it’s brutal, _vicious_ , really. 

A part of John hates him for his weakness — to let himself be used up like that, torn apart, destroyed, yet carry on, steady and predictable and loyal to a bloody fault. But Chas does have the sort of strengths John has always lacked — empathy, a moral compass, concern for others’ feelings, things John has only ever seen as vulnerabilities — and he’s at least managed to not kill every good thing he’s ever touched. 

And so the rest of John — his brittle, creaking heart most of all — loves him for it.

Has always loved him for it. Long before they fucked for the first time, long before Chas thought of him as anything other than a petty annoyance to be humored or an imminent disaster to be pitied. 

John has loved him, and he loves him; he’s needed Chas, and he’s used him. And he wants Chas — wants Chas’ hands on his hips and Chas’ cock in his arse and Chas’ teeth against his throat. But he also wants—

John inhales. Sharp, and loud, filling his lungs with a punch of cold air, and glances back toward the bed, making sure.

Chas is still asleep. On his chest, dark hair stark against the pillows, breaths steady and calm, back broad and smooth. Soft and peaceful and content, he looks. Like he’s never been hurt, like he never will be. The temptation to join him — to curl up against his side and press a kiss to his bare shoulder, to let Chas take him into his arms — is almost intractable.

 _Almost_.

John exhales.

He can’t do this.

*

Chas drags him out of the bathroom and pushes him onto the bed.

Kisses him, and kisses him; rubs up against John as he presses him down, covering John’s body with his own. 

John kisses back — open mouthed, desperate, arching up against the warm, solid weight of him. Running his fingers through Chas’ still-wet hair, even as Chas pulls away, dropping his hands to John’s chest, making quick work of the buttons on John’s shirt. John can’t bear to stop him — Chas greets every newly revealed inch of skin with a kiss, working his way down to John’s waist, unbuckling John’s belt with practiced ease. John lifts his hips and Chas tugs his trousers down, tossing them on the floor without a second thought.

He takes more time with John’s boxers. Licks at John’s erection through them, and John _squirms_ — it feels strange, the wet warmth of Chas' tongue through cloth. Chas nuzzles against the inside of his thigh — the prickle of his beard against John’s skin is maddening, makes him want to grab at Chas’ head and force it back down.

He doesn’t.

Inhales — sharp, pained — as Chas flips down the waistband of his pants, and takes a slow, deep breath of his own. Mumbles something against John’s hip. 

John gives a breathless, inquisitive whine, as Chas continues to breath, quick and hot, against John’s skin.

“I said, you smell good, too,” Chas says, and looks up at him. He’s blushing, a little, and John feels his heart jolt in a way he’s entirely prepared to ignore. Reaches down instead, fumbling nervously at Chas’ shoulder until he catches on and slides back up. Takes John’s face in his hands, and kisses him again. 

John can feel Chas’ cock, leaving a wet trail across his stomach, and his own, already leaking into Chas’ hip. He presses his tongue into Chas’ mouth and wraps his arms around the back of Chas’ neck. His shirt’s still on — open, but tight against his back as he tries to wrap himself around Chas. Chas huffs and pulls back, nudges John over onto his stomach to be able to peel the shirt off of him, and then moves to flip John back over again — a hand under John’s hip, a kiss to the back of John’s neck.

“Wait,” John mumbles, before he loses his chance. “Like this."

“Yeah?” Chas said, confused but indulgent — John usually prefers to ride him, or to lie back, legs wrapped around Chas’ waist, urging him on as he thrusts into John’s body and mouths desperately at John’s throat.

John nods, burying his face into the pillow. He won’t be able to manage otherwise — won't be able to look Chas in the eye and keep from saying something phenomenally stupid. Given his luck, Chas’d see it in his face even if he did manage to keep his mouth shut.

John squirms as Chas prepares him — rubbing up against the cheap motel sheets, thrusting back onto Chas’ fingers. A distraction — thoughtless, heady, the friction against his aching cock and the familiar girth of Chas’ fingers. Chas’ cock is even better — eased into him, wonderfully thick, and one quick, impulsive thrust before Chas catches himself and wraps an arm around John’s waist. 

John’s perfectly content like that, on his hands and knees — more than, feels hot and desperate all over, ready to be used and pushed back down onto the mattress when Chas is done. But Chas pulls him back, against his chest, till he’s kneeling on the bed.

“C’mere,” Chas breaths, reaching down to rub at John’s hip.

And Chas — Chas takes direction well but it’s rare he’ll make any requests of his own, so John’s willing to give on this, leans into his arms till he’s pressed against Chas’ chest and his thighs are spread wide over Chas’ legs. 

“Okay?” Chas murmurs, and John sighs, letting himself relax; his head falls back onto Chas' shoulder and Chas nuzzles against John’s cheek. It’s too tender, too intimate, for all that he can barely see Chas — he can feel him, all of him, the hot solid strength of his body against John’s, the steadiness of his arms around John’s torso. Each deep breath, pressing Chas' chest against John’s back. His hands rake their way up and down John’s sides — John pants and squirms, dropping his head forward, squeezing around Chas’ cock. Trying to spur him on. Chas just gives a soft, indulgent hum and kisses John’s shoulder.

“Shh,” he says, panting against John’s throat, rubbing his palms across John’s chest. “Slow down.”

“Make me,” John groans, as if he can’t — as if he hasn’t already. 

Chas laughs again, kisses the side of John’s neck. Pulls back, just a little, just enough to hook his chin on John’s other shoulder. John watches as his hand slides from where it’s tight ‘round John’s thigh to the join of his hip to his cock, one long smooth motion ending with a warm, careful stroke and then tense, pointed stillness.

“Make you,” Chas mutters, low but almost conversational — a neat trick, given the way he’s panting, the way John can feel his chest rise and fall with such force he’d be knocked over, were it not for Chas' arm around his waist — and kisses his shoulder again. “Make you what, John? Make you come?"

“ _Bastard_ ,” John hisses, and then snaps. “No, mate, just leave me like this and— _fuck_ ,” John groans, gasping as Chas squeezes and begins to rub his thumb against the head of John’s cock. 

“You’re always so…” Chas takes a breath, nuzzles at John’s throat again. “Always so impatient.” He strokes at John, sets a careful, measured pace, but John can feel the tension in him, the strain of his thighs beneath John’s — and there it is, the slight, impulsive twitch of his hips as he thrusts into John’s body. John lets out a whine — less intentional than he’d have liked, but it does the trick, earns him a deeper thrust and a tighter stroke. “Know what I think?"

Unless he thinks it’s time to stop messing about and give John a real thorough fuck, John doesn’t particularly care, and yet: “What?” he grits out, and Chas muffles a groan into his skin. 

“Think if I—mm,” he starts, quickening his pace on John’s cock. “Think if I fucked you the way you—the way you wanted,” he stops, takes a breath, flexes his hips again — John whimpers, lets himself be thrust up into Chas’ grip by the momentum. “You’d get bored of—“ Chas shakes his head, presses his mouth to John’s shoulder. Not quite a smile, not quite a kiss. “You’d get bored,” he says, finally, and John turns his head, as much as he can.

He can feel Chas’ panting — his mouth is a few bare inches away, and they breathe together, desperate and sharp, as Chas slides his other hand up John’s chest and wraps it around his throat. “Never,” John murmurs, and then dips his head over, lets his mouth graze Chas.’ It’s not much of a kiss — sloppy and off center, they’re both too distracted to make a real go of it — but it’s enough, keeps their mouths too busy to say something they’ll both regret. Chas fucks him, each steady thrust deep enough to push John forward, to thrust John’s cock into his grip. John feels everything — the fullness of Chas’ cock, the roughness of Chas’ hand. The hair on Chas’ legs, the warmth of his chest against John’s back. The taste of him — Christ, when had _that_ become familiar — and the prickle of his beard against John’s face as they kiss. 

“ _Oh,_ ” John gasps as he comes, turning his head. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he sobs, burying his face in Chas’ neck. Chas strokes him through it, rubbing at John’s chest with the other hand, murmuring gently into John’s hair, soothing him. 

_Ridiculous_ , John thinks, even as he trembles, pushing himself further back into Chas’ arms, letting himself be held up — couldn’t manage it on his own, anyway, buzzing with the post-coital rush of feeling. Dizzy with it, easily distracted — he’s surprised to find himself falling back, but distantly so, unconcerned. Comes to rest on Chas’ chest again, rises and falls with each of his heavy breaths and the rapid, shallow thrusts of Chas' hips until he comes.

Chas pulls him close again, one hand around John’s throat, the other arm around John’s waist. John turns his head, nuzzling against Chas’ cheek — drowsy and impatient, but pointed, intentional. Chas sighs, and reaches up. Presses his thumb to the center of John’s chin, and guides John’s mouth open. They kiss — softer than before, and careful. 

Their mouths drift apart again, for all the good that does: they're still cheek to cheek, still pressed together, Chas’ soft cock still deep in John’s arse. John can almost breath again, and wishes for the cigarette he knows Chas won’t let him light, not when they’re still this close. 

“Jesus,” Chas says, and John huffs in agreement. Reaches down, finding Chas’ hand where it’s still braced against John’s stomach, and pressing his palm down on top of it. After a moment, their fingers lace together. John shuts his eyes. 

“Close enough,” he says, and lets himself drift off.

*

He sees her before she sees him.

Thick dark hair, gorgeous smile, bright eyes. 

She sees him staring. Winks. 

Not shy, then. He likes that.

He smirks back, and tips his drink in greeting. She laughs, tosses her hair, and makes her way over. 

She's even better up close: hazel eyes, full lips, and she smells wonderful, too. Slightly floral, slightly earthy, not overwhelming. "Can I buy you a drink?" she says, voice low, as she dips closer. 

“Think that’s meant to be my line, love.”

“Ugh,” she says, teasing, with a charmingly performative eye roll. “Well, if you _must._ ”

 _Must I?_ He thinks, even as he waves down the bartender, who catches his eye, glances at John’s new companion, and gives a knowing nod before turning back around.

 _Convenient,_ John can’t help but think, suspicion a bitter aftertaste to the already dampened thrill of anticipation. 

John turns back to her. “Beautiful necklace, that,” he says, nodding at the blood-red stone wrapped in golden vines, resting enticingly above her generous cleavage. 

“Oh, this?” she says, wrapping her hand around it and holding it out. “It’s a lucky necklace.”

He bends over to study it — the stone glows, even in the dim light. "What’s lucky about it?”

“Well,” she says, leaning in a little, tipping her chin up as she does. Her eyes _are_ lovely — sharp and sparkling. “Men _always_ want to get a closer look.”

“Dunno if I’d call that lucky, myself.”

She laughs, and shrugs. “Well, it was tonight,” she says, and reaches up to push back her dark, thick curls. John follows her movement — spots a flash of a tattoo on her wrist, twisting black ink on soft, tan skin — and goes to speak, before his gaze flickers, attention caught by what it takes him far too long to realize was a familiar, low chuckle.

“So, what’s your story, English?”

John glances back, trying to focus. “My story?”

“Who are you, what’re you doing here. You know, that sort of thing."

“I’m John,” he says, with a shrug — no need to be more than that, not for this. “I’m in town for business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Consulting,” he says, swallowing a smile — it’s an old joke, one only Chas ever really seems to find funny — and turns up as charming a smile as he can manage. “How ‘bout you, love?”

“Oh, I’m local."

“Out at the hotel bar, lookin’ for a good time?”

“Why?” she asks, smirking. “Are you offering?”

John has to laugh — weary, exhausted, amused but rueful, and then sighs. Shakes his head. "Not tonight, love. Maybe another time, yeah?" 

She's momentarily startled, but recovers quickly. Smiles at him again. "Your loss."

"Of that," he says, clinking his glass against hers. "I've no doubt at all." 

She chuckles, nods, and leaves. 

He finishes his drink.

Shakes his head. Puts down his empty glass, rolls his shoulders, and sighs.

Gets up, turns around, and walks away from the bar, to where Chas and Zed are having an apparently very pleasant discussion. He slides between them, facing Chas, and tips his head up. Chas looks down at him, surprised. 

"Take me upstairs, mate," John says, lightly, playing idly with the zipper of Chas' jacket. Fuck, he looks good: that dark blue shirt of his, the one that leave his neck exposed, that tempts John to press his mouth against his steady pulse. Chas' hand is suddenly very warm around his arm."Put me to bed." 

Chas looks confused. He glances toward the bar, where Miss Perfect Tits and Gorgeous Smile is having a chat with the bartender, and then back at John. "You feeling all right?"

"Bit tired," John says, and those are the magic words. 

*

He wakes up on his stomach, tucked carefully beneath the thick hotel comforter. Attempts to roll over, and cringes as every single muscle in his body queues up to lodge a formal protest. 

Chas laughs.

John glances toward him — he’s sitting down, lacing up his shoes. Fully dressed, bright eyed, and freshly showered, if the slicked-back wet hair is anything to go by. 

John remembers how it felt, cool against his cheek, as his back arched over Chas' chest, as Chas breaths mixed with his own. 

“Good morning?” Chas offers, and smiles, as John flips him off and flops onto his back. 

“What time’s it?”

“Eight-ish,” Chas says, more cheerful than any of their conversation thus far should merit. John doesn’t have it in him to be as suspicious as he should be; holds back a smile, instead, and does his best to relax against the mattress. 

“You hungry?” he hears, and glances over. Chas is looking at him; John shrugs. Chas laughs at that, and says, almost to himself: “Are you ever?” 

“Sometimes,” John says, which is true: when Chas is in the kitchen and John is watching him, watching his hands move with casual confidence and his shoulders strain against his shirt. “Like it when you cook,” he offers — the best he can do.

“Yeah,” Chas says, amused and unsurprised. “Yeah, I know,” he adds, then shakes his head, and sighs. “I just don’t get you, sometimes.”

_You do. You get more of me than anyone. You get all of me that matters._

John forces a smirk, and hauls himself up. “International man of mystery, I am.” 

Chas huffs. “Not exactly,” he says. “But…”

“But?” John asks, morbidly curious.

“You push people away. You always have, I _know_ that, I—” Chas shakes his head. “I _get_ that. You don’t want people you care about getting hurt.” 

John resists the urge to squirm. Makes him sound better than he is, when Chas puts it like that, and he’s _wrong:_ there’s no altruism to it, no real concern for others on its own merits. He’s selfish, and can’t bear to lose what he’s come to depend on. Simple as that.

He’s about to say as much, but Chas continues: “But for some reason you think that’s — you think that’s going to keep the rest of us from caring about _you_.”

“You’d be better off if it did."

Chas makes a show of considering that, sitting down next to John on the bed. “Maybe,” he concedes, and then shrugs. “But it doesn’t work that way.”

“Oh, how does it work, then?” he says, a little sharp — this is too much, too close to the conversation they’ve gotten all too good at avoiding. 

Chas is silent for a moment, and then reaches over. Takes John’s face in his hands. “I couldn’t stop caring about you if I tried,” he says.

John blinks. “Have you?” 

“Have I what?”

“Tried,” John says, picking at the scab.

“Yeah,” Chas answers, too quick to be anything but the truth.

*

"I'm not that drunk," he lies, as Chas slides the key card into the door for him. Chas won't fuck him when he's drunk, but he'll come to bed with him and kiss him and stay till morning, fondly sighing all the while, if only to make sure John won't choke on his own vomit.

And Chas _does_ sigh, leaning into him, getting to work unbuckling John’s belt and slipping off his tie and pulling off his shirt. All of which John is capable of; but Chas likes doing it, likes to be useful, likes to feel _necessary_. And John is tired enough, old enough, drunk enough, _honest_ enough to admit, for once, if only to himself, that — Chas is. Useful, and more than that: essential. 

And _talking,_ somehow, somehow entirely oblivious to John’s gut-twisting emotional overload as he finishes undressing him and bundles him into bed. 

"It was—just because we go out together doesn't mean we — have to come home together." Chas is saying, haltingly, as if the words are being torn from his mouth, even as he crawls into bed next to John. 

“Haven’t come home.”

“You know what I mean,” Chas says, mildly exasperated, as he reaches back to turn off the light.

“Didn’t go out together, either,” John points out, which is true — John’d gone straight from his room to the hotel bar, but Chas and Zed had at least made the effort to get a proper meal first. 

Chas sighs: actively annoyed this time. “You _know_ what I _mean_ ,” he grumbles. 

“Can’t say that I do, mate,” says John, just to be an arse.

“John—“ 

“Chas,” John groans, glancing over his shoulder. "You sayin' you want to fuck someone else?"

"I'm saying I know we're not—” Chas hesitates, easing up behind him, laying a gentle hand on John’s hip as if he expects it or him or the charged air between them to shatter if he’s not careful. “I know what this is.”

 _That'd make one of us, then._ John exhales. 

“John?” Chas says, seemingly expecting a response. John, suddenly eager to give one, turns in Chas’ arms and reaches out.

Runs his thumb over Chas’ brow. Traces down from the bridge of his nose to the tip, then along the curve of his cheek. Chas huffs and shuts his eyes — embarrassed, John can tell, like he always is when John pays him any sort of attention. 

“Look at you,” John says, softer than he should, as he strokes his fingers along Chas’ face. Chas winces. “So bloody handsome,” he adds, surprised, like he’s only just noticed.

Chas scoffs. Opens his eyes again.

“You’re drunk," he says, annoyed again, but reaches over to run his fingers through John's hair.

“Mm,” John hums, preening a little— Chas' strokes are casually, thoughtlessly fond, and leave John feeling _soft_ , all lovely and warm. Chas smiles, a little smug, obviously aware of the effect he has on John, and John...smiles back, relieved Chas has realized without having to be told.

“Don't _need_ anyone else, you numpty," John says, just in case, and gives Chas' cheek a quick, playful slap. “More’n enough for me, you are.”

Chas sighs, and shakes his head. “You’re drunk,” he says again, almost to himself, as he pulls back. 

John panics — heart racing, fingers scrambling at Chas’ shoulder, trying to pull him back. “Chas,” he says, not thinking. “Chas, I—” 

Chas darts in, closing the distance between them, and kisses him quiet. 

John tries to enjoy it — it’s what he wanted, after all, to have Chas against him again, wrapping his arms around John’s waist. And he’s grateful that Chas stopped him, cut off the nervous, desperate words John would’ve regretted in the morning. But a part of him — new and strange, bright and burning — wishes he’d been quick enough to let them out anyway.

John sighs, and buries his fingers in Chas’ hair. 

It’s fine.

It’s easier.

It’s enough.

*

The drive back is long, and quiet. 

John fiddles with the radio. Chas lets him.

John lights a cigarette. Chas sighs — tired, pointed — but keeps his mouth shut.

John rolls down a window. 

Inhales.

Exhales.

Turns to look at him: Chas is staring ahead — there’s not much traffic but there’s enough, John figures, to keep Chas focused on the road in front of him. 

John reaches out. 

Runs his fingers through Chas’ dark curls, careful not to displace his cap. 

Chas’ gaze flickers to John, who freezes — fingers still in Chas’ hair, but ready to withdraw at any hint of objection. 

There isn’t one.

Chas’ gaze returns to the road, and the corner of his mouth quirks up — just slightly — into a soft, warm smile. 

*

He sits bolt upright, displacing Chas’ arm from where it’d settled across his chest.

 _The necklace. The tattoo. The look with the bartender, the_ —

“‘John?” mumbles Chas, arm tightening around John’s waist. “‘s wrong?

“Nothing,” John says, too fast. “Back in a bit, gotta — dyin’ for a piss.”

Chas grumbles sympathetically and flops over onto his back, freeing John from his grasp. John doesn’t let himself ache from the loss of contact. Scrambles out of bed, mind racing, as he pulls on just as many clothes as he’ll need. He’s quick about it, and quiet — years of practice have made it automatic, the getting dressed and sneaking out, leaving nothing but an empty bed and some hopefully decent memories in his wake.

Not with Chas, though. Chas’ll wake up alone and sigh and take it _personal_ , and won’t let John forget it. 

There’s nothing else for it, though. She’s strong, and brazen, and if she got her hands on Chas — on the dozens and dozen of souls still crawling beneath his skin — or Zed, whose abilities remain erratic but fundamentally terrifying, she’ll be almost unstoppable. 

John’s magic — limited as it is, more show than anything — is worthless by comparison. So it’s got to be him, and him alone, and he hasn’t the time to wake Chas and Zed up to explain that they’ll have to stay behind, were that something he even wanted to explain, which it isn’t.

They’ll understand. 

Well — Zed’ll understand, and Chas’ll be angry at him, and with time he’ll either get over it, or he won’t.

Either way, John thinks, as he darts out of the hotel room and to the parking lot. Either way, Chas’ll be safe to either hate John or forgive him. 

That’s as good as he’s going to get.

*

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“You just going to sit there and watch me unpack?”

“No,” says John, because he’s also going to finish his drink, and probably light a cigarette after. Chas’d been so kind as to place an ashtray on his side of the bed, and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.

Chas huffs, shaking his head, but unzips his bag and starts pulling out clothes.

Holds up the shirt he’d been wearing and surveys the damage — more than a dozen holes with singed edges, scattered around the chest and back. Totally ruined. Chas sighs. “I liked this shirt,” he says.

“So did I,” John offers. Chas glances at him, brow furrowed. “Looked good on you,” John clarifies.

Chas blushes. “Yeah, okay,” he says, dropping his gaze and turning around. Drops the ruined shirt in the trash.

John takes a drink. "Oi. Chas."

"Yeah?" Chas says, not looking up from his sorting of dirty clothes.

"Did it hurt?"

Chas' hands still for a second, then he shrugs. "I'm used to it," he says, seemingly casual. 

John's not fooled. "Chas," he says again, a clear challenge, and Chas sighs.

"Yeah, John," he concedes, tossing one last pair of pants into the plastic basket. “It always hurts.”

 _I'm sorry,_ John wants to say, as if that'll cover all of the evils he's visited upon Chas in the almost two decades since they've met. 

_Stop getting yourself killed, then_ , he could say, sardonic and cruel. _Don’t know if I can bear it anymore,_ as if it's John having his body broken and dragged back together with distressing frequency. 

_Deserve better than this, mate,_ as if he doesn't know — in his cold, calculating heart — that he's _saved_ Chas, from death, yes, but from a life entrenched in mediocrity, driving his cab and fucking his wife and — 

And watching his daughter grow up. And sleeping well at night. And being _happy_ , ensconced in hard-fought normalcy and a simpler world.

John takes another drink, as if it'll drown out the feedback loop of guilt and relief: he's ruined Chas but he's _got_ him, for as long as he wants, for as long as John can keep himself from fouling it up. 

Chas turns back and gives John a quick, sweeping look. “Take all of that off.”

“What?”

“Your clothes.”

John blinks. “Could do with a _bit_ more romance than that, mate,” he says, already undoing his tie.

Chas snorts. “Since when?” he says, not quite under his breath, and then shakes his head. “I’m just gonna go throw all this in the wash. Might as well do yours too.”

John reaches over and puts down his drink. “Do it tomorrow,” he says, sitting back on the bed and letting his palms rest on his spread thighs. 

Chas looks at him, head cocked; John looks back, for as long as he can, before dropping his gaze and managing a quick, nervous shrug. 

A moment passes.

“Okay,” Chas says, and walks back to the bed. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

*

“Thing is,” John manages, stumbling back, doing one last, desperate pat-down of his pockets, just in case the dagger he’d been _sure_ he'd brought with him has just been waiting till an appropriately dramatic moment to make an appearance. 

No such luck — must’ve dropped it in his haste to escape the hotel room. C’est la fucking vie, he supposes. Nothing he can do about it now, in the end.

He wipes the blood from his mouth. “The thing _is_ , love—“ 

A loud, cottage-shaking bang cuts him off, thankfully — he’s no idea what _the thing_ might’ve been — and then: “John!”

 _“_ Cha—“ he starts, only to be cut off by the sharp, annoyed, almost unintelligible snarl of, "Down.”

John, acting on instinct he’d long believed lost, drops to the ground.

Gunshot.

One, from behind him — behind where he’d been — and then the thud of impact, and a scream.

*

He wakes up cold and alone, curled on his side, with Chas’ back to him. 

It’s not ideal. 

He deserves it, certainly — deserves worse, probably — but he’s got no problem being a selfish bastard and seeking out a little comfort. He rolls over.

Chas is apparently fast asleep; doesn’t even stir when John runs a careful hand through his hair. His breaths come slow and steady; John curls closer, pressing his mouth to the nape of Chas' neck, taking in the typical, lovely scent of him: cheap shampoo and sweat and soap. John is hit by a warm wave of arousal and — affection, welling in his chest, filling his lungs and swamping his heart. He presses a kiss to Chas’ shoulder, runs a hand down his arm. Chas’ skin is warm and smooth, his hair coarse and dark. John catches himself, holds back a satisfied sigh, and swallows round the strange lump in his throat. 

“Oi,” he says, flicking Chas in the arm. “Chas."

Chas grunts something that might, charitably, be interpreted as “What?"

John huffs and presses another kiss to Chas' shoulder; nips lightly at the skin he finds there. Chas groans and shrugs, shaking him off. 

“C’mon, mate."

“What time’s it?” Chas slurs, burying his head into his pillow, and turning further away from John in the process. 

“Dunno. Turn ‘round a bit, yeah?"

Chas groans, but does it — rolls over, and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?"

John smiles, and leans into him. Curls an arm around the back of his neck, and nuzzles their noses together; figures Chas’ll like that, and it puts his mouth within range to be kissed. 

“What’re you up to?” mumbles Chas, who’s half asleep, but has still managed to wrap a hand around the back of John’s head, and tangle his fingers in John’s shirt.

“Got to be up to somethin’, do I?” John murmurs back. Chas just looks at him — eyes half lidded, lips parted, brow furrowed. John rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss him. Chas makes a soft, long-suffering sound, the sentiment of which is somewhat belied by his open mouth and lazily searching tongue. 

After a moment, Chas pulls back. “ _Again?_ ” he huffs, good natured, as if they'd gotten around to anything more involved than one sloppy handjob apiece before falling asleep together. “It’s the middle of the night."

John leans into him and purrs: “You got somethin’ better to do?"

“Yeah,” Chas grumbles, draping his arm around John’s waist all the same. “It’s called _sleeping."_

“Well, if you insist,” John says, curling up against Chas’ impossibly warm body, and pressing his forehead to Chas' shoulder.

A moment passes — Chas remains tense, suspiciously still, like he’s thinking something through. Then he groans, and lets out an only slightly annoyed chuckle.

"Could've just asked," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"Asked what?” John says, all innocence.

Chas sighs. “Just go to sleep, John," he says, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. 

John takes a breath, nuzzles at Chas' shoulder, and shuts his eyes. 

  
  


*

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even want to talk about how long i've been working on this fic.


End file.
